Page 59 of Degradation (The Brethren Lords #3)

Devin

“ W ell? Did my wife play her part?”

I know exactly what the fucker is asking, what he wants to know. Did Paitlyn fuck him? Did she whore herself out well enough for this arsehole to be satisfied?

I don’t know who the fuck he is, I don’t know what power he has, but evidently, he’s a big enough player for Gunther to give him so much playtime.

Before I realise I’m doing it, I’m silently stalking after the man, following him down the hallway, down the steps.

I don’t know why he’s up this early, why Gunther didn’t leave him to enjoy Paitlyn a little longer, but the benefit is that the Palace is deserted. There’s no one around but him and me.

I slide my hand into my pocket, pulling out the tiny slip knife.

I can hear his steps on the polished floor ahead of me and I know he can’t hear mine.

He’s twenty paces in front of me. He walks with purpose; he gives off the feeling that he owns the world. Whoever the fuck he is, he’ll be dead within the hour, if I have anything to say about it.

My fingers curl around the knife in my pocket, the familiar weight of it grounding me as rage threatens to blur my vision.

The metal is warm from my body heat, and I can feel every groove in the handle through the fabric.

I’ve killed with this blade before. It’s silent.

Clean. Unlike the pistol holstered at my hip, which would almost certainly wake half the palace and bring guards running before I could even savour the moment.

He turns left down the east corridor, and I follow, my steps measured and careful. The palace feels like a tomb this early, all shadows and whispers, and perfect for what needs to be done. Perfect for justice.

Because that’s what this is, justice. Not jealousy. Not the sick, twisting thing in my gut that makes me want to tear him apart with my bare hands. Justice for the insult he’s committed, for the way he’s contaminated something pure.

His shoulders are back, his stride long and unhurried, like he owns every stone beneath his feet. Like he’s conquered something worth conquering.

The sight of it sends fresh fury coursing through my veins. How dare he? How dare he walk through these halls like he’s some sort of victor.

I quicken my pace, closing the distance between us.

Fifteen paces. Ten. The knife seems to pulse in my grip, eager for blood, for the satisfying resistance of flesh giving way to steel.

I can already picture it, the blade sliding between his ribs, the shocked gasp he’ll make, the way his arrogant smirk will melt into confusion and then nothing at all.

He rounds another corner, and I follow, my heartbeat hammering so loud I’m surprised he can’t hear it.

This corridor is even more isolated, lined with storage rooms and servant quarters that won’t be occupied for another hour at least. Perfect.

As if fate itself is conspiring to help me right this wrong.

Eight paces. Six. My hand tightens on the knife, and I can feel my muscles coiling, preparing for the strike. This will be easy. Quick. Satisfying in a way that will finally quiet the roaring in my head.

Four paces.

I draw the blade free, keeping it low and hidden against my leg. The morning light catches the edge for just a moment, throwing a silver gleam across the wall. Beautiful. Deadly.

Two paces.

I raise the knife, my body moving with the fluid precision of years of training. One quick thrust upward, between the fourth and fifth ribs, angled toward the heart. He’ll be dead before he hits the ground.

“Blake?”

Malik’s voice cuts through the silence like a whip crack, freezing me mid-stride. The knife wavers in my grip as my target stops walking, his entire body going rigid. Slowly, deliberately, he turns around.

Our eyes meet.

His are brown, I notice. Plain, unremarkable brown, set in a face that’s handsome enough but also forgettable.

The kind of face that blends into crowds, that you wouldn’t look at twice under normal circumstances.

But there’s nothing forgettable about the way he’s looking at me now, sharp, calculating, like he’s taking inventory of everything he sees.

The knife is still in my hand. Still visible. Still hungry for blood.

I could do it. Right now, right here, with Malik somewhere behind me and witnesses be damned. I could drive the blade home and watch the life drain out of those ordinary brown eyes. The thought sends a thrill through me so intense it’s almost sexual.

But Malik is calling again, closer now, and I can hear footsteps echoing off the marble. Multiple sets of footsteps. And this bastard is still staring at me with that unnerving focus, like he can see straight through to my soul and isn’t impressed by what he finds there.

Does he know?

Does he understand exactly why I’m here, exactly what I was about to do?

The possibility should terrify him, should send him running or screaming or begging for mercy. Instead, his lips curve into the faintest suggestion of a smile.

“You should go along,” he says, his voice just loud enough for Malik to hear. Like I’m a wayward dog being called to heel. Like I’m some common servant who’s wandered away from his duties.

I feel my upper lip pull back in an involuntary snarl, every instinct screaming at me to lunge forward, to show him exactly what this particular dog can do when provoked.

But his smirk only widens, and I realize with cold, furious clarity that he knows exactly what he’s doing. He knows I won’t strike now, not with Malik bearing down on us and the sound of other voices drifting through the corridors.

He knows I’m trapped, forced to stand here and watch as he walks away unpunished.

And he’s enjoying it.

The bastard is actually enjoying my impotent rage, savouring it like fine wine. Like the memory of Paitlyn’s skin beneath his hands.

“Blake.” Malik calls again, and now I can hear the irritation creeping into his voice. “Where the hell are you?”

The man, this nameless, worthless piece of shit who dared to touch what’s mine, gives me one last knowing look before turning away.

His stride is even more confident now, more leisurely, like our little encounter has only confirmed his superiority.

Like he’s won some contest I didn’t even know we were playing.

I watch him go, my entire body vibrating with frustrated violence.

The knife feels useless in my hand now, just dead weight and broken promises.

I should put it away, should compose myself before Malik finds me, but I can’t seem to make my fingers obey.

All I can do is stand here and burn with the knowledge that justice has been denied, that this insult will go unanswered.

For now.